Rakkim peeled the orange, put the peels in his pocket.
Pernell glanced at him, kept walking. “You look fucked out. That little gal must be putting you through your paces.”
Rakkim fed a slice of orange into his mouth.
A grasshopper jumped in front of Pernell, and he nailed it with a wad of khat juice. “You’re a damn fool to wait until now to start settling down. You should have two or three wives at least by now. Don’t go in for any of that one-wife foolishness. You been around Catholics too much, if you think that way.”
The orange was sweet and juicy. “One at a time is plenty.”
“That’s a mistake. One wife thinks she owns you. You have two or three or four, they all know they can be replaced with a quick I divorce thee. Three times and it’s back on the street. Good Muslim woman knows that, knows her only hope is to keep the man of the house pleased. Allah allowed us four wives for a reason.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Not that you’ll take it. You were always a hardhead. That’s okay, you’ll find out. That little gal of yours looks fun, but she’s got brains. I could see that just from the way she stood. Woman with brains, that’s just asking for trouble.”
Rakkim chewed the last of the orange, juice running down his chin. “I like trouble.”
“Come talk to me in a few years and tell me if you still like it.” Pernell raked a hand through his beard. They walked in silence until they made it back to the swimming pool. Pernell eased himself into a deck chair, the tiny scars across his face flaring. “I could use a partner in the consulting business. I’m making good money, but with the right partner I could expand. PDs fall all over themselves for ex-Fedayeen.”
Rakkim sat beside him.
“Time for you to sell that den of iniquity of yours and go into an honest trade.”
Rakkim watched the inflatable swan drift across the pool. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“There’s no fun in anything,” Pernell said softly. He bucked up as two of his wives and Sarah came out of the back door carrying cups and tea and pastries. He waited as the wives set down the refreshments, poured tea for the both of them, then backed away, bowing. Sarah stayed. Pernell dropped five sugar cubes into his teacup. “I told Rakkim he should plan on marrying a quartet. He seems to think you’re as much as he could handle.”
“I am as much as he can handle.”
Pernell banged the spoon against the cup as he stirred. “Don’t be spreading that modern slop around my wives.” His smile didn’t even attempt to be convincing. “I’m serious.”
“A husband like you makes women happy to be part of a quartet. It means they each only have to spend a fourth of their time pretending.” Sarah smiled at Pernell. “I’m serious.”
Pernell looked at Rakkim. “Yeah, you’re going to have trouble with this one.”
Rakkim watched Sarah as she walked back to the house. “I’m counting on it.”
Pernell noisily sipped his tea. “What kind of help do you need?”
“I’m looking for a rent-wife. Short-termer—”
Pernell cackled.
“Not for me. Her name is Fatima Abdullah. Last aka was Fancy Andrews.” Rakkim showed him her picture on his phone, printed out a copy for him. “This mug shot is five years old. She was busted in Little Vatican for stealing a customer’s wallet. Had another bust the year before for heroin possession.”
“Little Vatican is full of violators. What do you expect, though? Catholics.”
“I was hoping one of your contacts in Vice could give me a lead on where to find her.”
Pernell pushed a lip out at the photo. “Five years since her last bust? Five weeks is a long time living that life. She could be anywhere. She could be dead.”
“I know.” Rakkim leaned forward. “All charges were dropped on that last one. Administrative adjudication. Which means she paid the arresting officer off, one way or the other. I’m thinking she might have been picked up a few times since then and the paperwork never got filed.”
“That’s been known to happen from time to time.” Pernell sipped his tea. “What do you want with her?”
“Her father is looking for her.” The lie came easily. Smoothly. “He’s dying and no longer cares about the shame she’s brought to the family. I owe him a favor.”
“So there’s no money in it?”
“I’m happy to pay you for your time and expertise.”
“Like you’d pay a rent-wife?”
“I don’t want to fight, Jack. I just want to find the girl.”
Pernell clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. “I haven’t had a good fight in a long time. I’m probably outclassed trying to pick one with you.”
“I know better. You’re the man who taught me how to fight dirty.”
“I’m the man who taught you there’s no such thing as dirty fighting. There’s just fighting.”
They shared a smile in recognition of the truth. The only truth.
“You weren’t the best recruit I had,” said Pernell, staring at the swimming pool. “There were a couple better. Hector Cinque…he had the fastest hands I ever saw. He’s dead now. Shot through the throat five years ago during an extraction outside of Mombasa.”
“I heard the diplomat they pulled in didn’t even have anything useful.”
Pernell shook his head. “I didn’t know that. Typical front-office op. Emir Zingarelli…you ever work with him? No? He was faster than you too. Not as fast as Cinque, but fast.” A mosquito buzzed around Pernell, landed on his prosthetic hand. “Zingarelli’s dead too. Helicopter went down off the coast of Texas. Might have been a peckerwood missile…might have been some asshole in maintenance didn’t tighten the right bolt.” The mosquito buzzed away and Rakkim pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. “Cinque and Zingarelli both dead, and here we sit, a couple of heroes baking our brains in the sun. Funny, isn’t it?”
Rakkim watched him.
“There were times these last few years I hated all of you with your two good arms and two good legs. All of you who still had missions ahead of you. Sometimes…sometimes I wish I hadn’t had body armor on when I stepped on that land mine. That titanium weave saved my life.” Pernell wiped his milky eye. It wasn’t a tear. Pernell had probably never cried in his life. He waited for Rakkim to say something, finally nodded. “Thanks for not telling me how lucky I am. Thanks for not telling me Allah must have a plan for me.”
“If Allah has a plan, He’s not sharing it with us.”
CHAPTER 45
After sunset prayers
“They used to call this the happiest place on earth,” said Sarah as they circled a fallen Ferris wheel. Half the girders had been stripped away.
Rakkim pointed to a man with his painter overalls around his ankles, smoking a cigarette while his rent-wife bobbed away. “He’d probably say it still is.”
Disneyland had been abandoned twenty years ago, much of its infrastructure looted, but plenty of the original park was still left behind, either too heavy to move or not worth selling for scrap. They walked over to the remains of the Matterhorn. Most of the fake mountain had been destroyed, but the snowcapped peak remained, shining in the moonlight, the brightest spot in the darkness.
Last night Pernell had checked the local vice squads until he found a detective who knew Fancy; he said she had come down a few pegs since working Little Vatican. Last he heard, she was renting it out at Disneyland with the rest of the fifteen-minute skeeges. Detective said she still gave a mean no-hands, but it was better if you closed your eyes. Pernell had offered the hospitality of his home to Rakkim and Sarah—they had eaten dinner together, but declined to spend the night. It had been late when they’d left Pernell’s, too late to go to Disneyland. They had slept until almost afternoon, then walked the boardwalk. Sarah insisting on feeding the gulls. When they got back to the motel, they made love, but were distracted, too conscious of time.
They started out on Main Street in Disneyland,
asked a rent-wife who had set up shop in an overturned streetcar if she knew Fancy. It cost $5 to be told no. They had been told no a lot as they crisscrossed the park. Businessmen in twos and threes wandered the deserted streets, swinging their briefcases while women called to them. Muslims and Catholics, white-collar and blue-collar and everyone in between. Knots of young toughs leaned against the buildings, but in spite of its isolation and lack of police presence, the park was relatively crime-free. The rent-wives paid the toughs to keep the peace, and the toughs didn’t want to scare away business.
A rent-wife working under a splintered Mickey Mouse said Fancy used to catch tricks near Cinderella’s castle. The castle was a busy spot, men sitting around watching basketball on their phones while they waited their turns. No Fancy though.
“I didn’t like Pernell when I thought he could help us,” said Sarah. “I like him even less now that his information may be useless.”
Rakkim walked over to three toughs sprawled across a beached gondola. “Evening.”
The biggest tough was a pale anvilhead wearing only overalls to show off his tattoos. He looked at Sarah. “She’s too fine for this rat’s nest. You’ll put every skeege here out of business. I got a number you can call in Newport. Mucho upscale. Tell them Jimmy Boy sent you.”
“Thanks anyway,” said Rakkim. “We’re looking for a wife named Fancy.”
Jimmy Boy snickered. “Fancy ain’t so fancy. Nothing like what’s on your arm.”
Fifty dollars later, Rakkim and Sarah were on their way to what was left of the Finding Nemo undersea adventure. He had taken the money from a separate pocket so as not to flash the extent of their cash, but he kept watch for tagalongs anyway.
Sarah spotted the Finding Nemo adventure first, noticing a massive epoxy starfish that someone had taken a torch to. The ride itself was housed inside a large, concrete blue-white shark. Disneyland patrons had evidently once walked through a series of turnstiles and into the shark’s wide-open mouth. Although most of the teeth had been broken off, the shark itself seemed mostly intact. Light flickered from inside its red plastic eyes. Sarah started toward the mouth, but Rakkim put a hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s see if there’s a back door.”
Sarah smiled. The two of them made a circuit of the shark, found a ramp coming out of the shark’s tail, an exit obscured by sheets of rotting plywood that someone had leaned over the opening. She scooted inside before he had a chance to stop her. Slipped through the canted plywood without touching anything. Rakkim was right behind her, moving slowly, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. They heard voices ahead, a woman’s laugh echoing. Sarah stopped and he edged beside her.
A woman was bent over a large red terra-cotta crab, her hands braced against its outstretched claws. She wore a frilly, white blouse and a short skirt hiked up around her hips. A trim businessman in a green suit was right behind her, grinding away, his pants still belted. Candles flickered in nesting spots dug out of the wall, and their movements sent crazy shadows across the room. The businessman orgasmed in a series of gasping curses, and he slumped away from her. Still panting, he tossed the condom onto the floor, wiped his penis on her skirt, and shoved his penis back into his pants. The woman turned around, threw back her long, dark hair. Smiled in the dancing candlelight. It was Fancy. “Wow. That was so good. You really got me started, my husband.”
“Uh-huh.” The businessman ran a comb through his hair.
“Don’t go yet.” Fancy stroked his face, but he pulled away. “Another fifteen minutes. I’ve got ways to bring a man back to life.”
The businessman slipped his comb back into his jacket. “I divorce thee. I divorce thee. I divorce thee.” He stalked out the shark’s mouth, kicked something out of his path.
Fancy wiped herself with a cloth, arranged her skirt. Scooped up the bills the businessman had left. She jerked suddenly, sensing them. “I haven’t got any money.”
“It’s all right.” Sarah stepped into the light. “We’re not interested in money.”
Fancy flinched as she saw Rakkim, but her attention quickly returned to Sarah. “Two fine young Muslims out for a walk on the wild side. I can handle that.”
“No, that’s not it,” said Sarah.
“Don’t be shy.” Fancy licked her lips. Cat eyes and high cheekbones, a grace to her movements. She must have been beautiful before all the businessmen. “Unless you enjoy that.”
“We’re here to talk to you about your father,” said Rakkim. “We’re willing to pay for the conversation,” he hurried as she stepped back, afraid she was about to run.
Sarah took her hand. “It’s important, Fatima.”
Fancy turned her head away. The candle flames bobbed. Scented candles. Coconut. “Please…please, don’t call me that.”
Sarah held on to her. “I’m Sarah. This is Rakkim. We need to talk about your father.”
Fancy looked from one to the other. “Why?”
“We talked to Cameron,” said Rakkim. “He said to tell you hi.”
“Is he all right?” said Fancy.
“He’d like to visit with you and your girlfriend again,” said Rakkim. “He said it was the best birthday he ever had.”
“Jeri Lynn liked him too.” Fancy sat on the crab, her shoulders drooping. “I should have gone back for him. Cameron doesn’t have anyone to look after him.”
“Something we all have in common.” Sarah sat beside her. “I lost my parents when I was five. Rakkim was orphaned when he was nine.”
Fancy stared at her, making sure. “I…I was seven.” This close, even by candlelight, the face under her makeup was visible. Fancy was hollowed-out, sick, wasting away. “You never get over it, do you?”
“No.” Rakkim and Sarah said it at the same time.
“I’d like some money,” Fancy said quietly. “You said you’d pay. I don’t think it’s wrong to ask for money if I’m helping you. That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?”
Rakkim pressed a wad of bills into her hand. Her eyes widened and he almost expected her to tell him it was too much, but she just tucked it away in her brassiere. As she did, he saw a perfectly circular scar at the base of her throat. Sarah saw it too. Tracheotomy scar. The addict’s badge of courage. She must have OD’d one time too many and been brought back to life. Against her will, probably. He had seen enough men dying, men who had fought against him as he’d struggled to save them, content to slip away from this world, ready to take their chances in the next.
“Your father died right after he came back from China,” said Sarah.
Fancy shrugged. “My mother and I…we met him at the airport. He was angry with us. We weren’t supposed to know that he was arriving home. We saw right away that he was sick. He said he had eaten some bad food on the plane, kaffir food, but I could tell he was lying. I could always tell.” She looked at Sarah. “What do you care about all this for?”
“I’m doing historical research on that period. The years prior to the takeover. Prior to the Zionist attack.”
“What does that have to do with my father? He was already dead by then.”
“I’m just doing background. Your father—”
“It must be nice to be a history teacher.” Fancy played with her hair. “I used to want to be a teacher. An elementary-school teacher. I always loved kids.” She rolled her hair back and forth between her right thumb and forefinger. “I can’t have ’em.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah.
“It’s okay. I probably wouldn’t have been a good mother anyway.” Fancy looked at Rakkim. “You’re no historian.”
Rakkim smiled.
Fancy didn’t return the smile. “I know men. I can tell things about them before they even open their mouth. Just from their shoes. Or their hands. Or their eyes. Their eyes most of all.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell anything about you, though.” She glanced at Sarah. “Can you?”
“We grew up together,” said Sarah. “I know him.”
“When your father came back from China, did he talk about his trip?” asked Sarah. “Places he had been, people he had met?”
“I just remember him throwing up a lot. And my mother crying.”
“He was working on that big dam in China,” said Sarah. “That must have been exciting for him.”
“I haven’t thought about those days in a long time. I was happy then. My father was strict, but he loved me very much.” Fancy kept her eyes on Sarah. “He used to call me his jewel. He used to hold me in his arms and call me his jewel.”
Rakkim let Sarah do the talking. Fancy had clearly had enough of men. The walls of the shark were covered with obscene graffiti, the floor littered with fast-food wrappers and worse. It smelled of urine and wet cardboard and dirty underwear. Fancy’s scented candles were hopeless but endearing. Maybe she just thought it was good business.
“The house you used to live in was torn down many years ago,” said Sarah. “I checked.”
“No one would have lived in that house. It was bad luck. Everyone knew that when my father died. The way he died. So sick.”
“You didn’t take him to a doctor? We couldn’t find any records.”
“A doctor came to the house. One I had never seen before. He gave Father pills for the pain, told Mother to keep to the house. To tend him. A bad house. An unlucky house. Then mother getting killed so soon afterwards…” Fancy shook her head.
Sarah looked at Rakkim. “Your mother died three years after your father. I’m sure it seemed too soon, but—”
“It was less than three months. I was there. Mother was driving on the freeway and a tire blew and the car crashed. We were going to the desert to pray. She was driving fast. They said it was a miracle I survived. Mother went through the windshield, but I only had a tiny cut on my leg. They said it was God’s will. They said He must have great plans for me.” Her laugh echoed within the shark.
“What happened to you?” said Sarah. “Who took care of you?”
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